Mark of Cain Sickness
by Mitchell Jones Sexton
Summary: Season 9, though Sam and Dean are at odds, they must set aside their differences when Dean begins experiencing the consequences of the Mark of Cain.
1. Chapter 1

_This is my first ever Fanfiction! So please forgive any mistakes, English isn't my first language... If you guys enjoy it, please give me some feedback and will provide another chapter :)_

There was no telling what was to come with all of the simultaneous conflicts floating around in Dean's life. Though he had seen hard days in the past, he couldn't help but have what he would describe as a _ball of stress in his stomach_. Being the epitome of stoicism he was, he kept his distress to himself, and trudged through the unpleasantness.

All he could do for the moment was wait for what was to come next. It was irritating, feeling so passive. Waiting to see what Crowley would do next. Waiting to see if Sam would forgive him. Waiting to see how the mark of Cain would affect him. Waiting for his guilt to subside. Waiting for death to have him, once and for all, sooner or later.

He tried to fill his restlessness with mundane everyday activities around the Men of Letters' headquarters, giving himself small doses of _apple-pie-life_. He cleaned his room, the bathroom and the kitchen. He polished some guns and knives, and prepared some salt and silver bullets. He decided to take a break and watch a movie on his laptop, and have some left-over Cantonese-Szechwan when he felt a mild head ache coming on - he attributed it to it being time for his post-lunch, pre-supper snack time.

Dean felt a little funny afterwards, and decided to take a nap in his room. He woke up almost an hour later. He'd been sweating a little and his stomach was beginning to cramp. "_Take-out must've gone bad_," he thought. He sat up, rubbing his abdomen in circles to soothe the pain.

Sam knocked on his door, Dean inviting him in with a "_yeah_". He quickly changed his demeanor, what with their new strictly business thing that had going on. More than his stomach could ever pain him, were the lengths Dean had gone to protect and keep his brother near and dear, only to have him push him away, and further the desolation in his heart, that the brotherly love they once shared quelled. So Dean didn't want Sam to mind him, or the havoc that leftovers and the ball of stress wreaked on him.

"Dean," Sam, began - though the elder sibling was trying to appear as though he was okay, Sam could see through him and read him like a book. He interrupted his thought "- are you feelin' okay?" he asked casually.

"Uh... Yeah. Just tired," he lied.

"Are you sure? You look a little green..."

"I had the leftover take-out, it's just not sitting well," he admitted. At least, Dean hoped that it was a simply a stomach ache, and nothing... biblical.

"I was gonna head to the store, get a few things. You need anything?"

"No. I'm good. Just the usual…"

"Beer and Pie"

Sam did a little better than the usual. He got Tylenol incase Dean got feverish, Gravol incase he threw up, Imodium incase it would come out the other end... Chicken soup and soda crackers and ginger ale, and a hot water bottle because Dean had a tendency of getting bad cramping.

Sam felt conflicted in his caring for and helping Dean. Like his anger and frustration wavered temporarily in his time of need. In the grand scheme of things, he needed him to be well to complete to defeat Abadon.

When Sam returned to the headquarters, he's found Dean at the conference table of the main room, doing research. A fellow hunter had called asking for an incantation to get rid of the spirit of a wicken.

Sam looked at Dean, as to say "_what's going on?_"

"That was Davidson; he's working a witch hunt."

"Huh," Sam answered, noticing Dean's improved appearance. "You're looking better..."

"I told you I was alright," Dean, insisted. He turned his attention to some files he was reading through, but couldn't help but be distracted by Sam staring at him with concern. In return, Dean glared back at him, as to say _stop staring at me._ Sam took his provisions to the kitchen to put them away.

The elder of the two felt himself relax as Sam left the room, and gave way to his abdominal discomfort, slouching in his seat a little. He then felt a twinge behind his eyes as he thought of the incredible pleasure and pain that came with Cain's mark and infamous sabre. He blinked to try to clear the image from his head. Before he knew it, he was overcome with stomach cramps and nausea and was bolting to the bathroom.

Sam hadn't spent a long time in the kitchen, and when he came back to the main room, he was a little surprised to see that Dean wasn't there. In the quiet of the room, he took a moment to appreciate that in the midst of this whole demon ordeal, he could find time to take care of personal things, like catching up on laundry, or having a little calm and doing some research…

For a time, he'd been studying the Hebraic version of the Cain and Able passage, searching for something that may help Dean. He came across a compelling verse and wanted to see if Dean would it might reveal something… He didn't know…

He headed to the computer room, and then the garage, and began getting impatient. Where was Dean? The way things were with Dean, otherwise, this would have reminded him of his childhood and he would affectionately think of games of hide and seek in Bobby's junk yard when he was 5 and Dean was 9. Rather, it fed into this gnawing irritation that he'd been robbed of his freedom, and betrayed by Dean.

"Dean, where the fuck are you?"

Dean was getting his bearings after throwing up a little. He rinsed his mouth, deciding against a full brush job after it sent him gagging again. He looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and wondered how he would keep up appearances when he looked so sickly, nauseated and lethargic. He kept a bottle of bismuth tablets in his hunting duffle bag for those motel nights when he'd had a few too many burgers, beers and pie. He thought that he was usually pretty discreet about his bouts of digestive distress if they weren't too bad. Truthfully, Sam couldn't ignore the tell-tale stomach gurgles and belches on their long stretches across state lines, but he knew that Dean preferred to keep to himself on these things, so he chose not to intervene unless it was grave.

_Why couldn't Dean choose not to intervene?_

Dean made haste, as fast as he could go without his head spinning and his stomach heaving. His trek to his bedroom was soon interrupted when he ran into Sam in the hallway, as he was coming out of the bathroom.

"Dean – there you are," finally, Sam had found Dean.

Dean tried to steady himself, straighten his back and not alarm his younger brother. This mound of tension that was building between them created this emotional wall that rivals the wall of Berlin. They were like strangers. Dean didn't want Sam to know, but was betrayed by his body when he fainted.


	2. Chapter 2

Leaving the bathroom, and turning over the corner had left the world spinning on a jagged axis. Then, eyes stinging from the glare of the hallway lights left his vision blurry. Trudging on gingerly, he saw stars as his legs began to waver beneath him. Finally, he heard his name called, flooded, and much like the sound of the sea crashing in his ears, a wave of paralysis washed over him.

And everything went black.

In his rift from consciousness, he was reminded of the spiralling staircase from Hitchcock's Vertigo, feeling malaise as he was suspended in the air, the ground inched closer to his body, succumbing to the call of gravity. The feeling quickly abated into nothingness. He was cold and hardened. The only thing he could hear were whispers.

Faint. Loud. Staccato. Acute. Deep.

Permeating the air like a mosaic of staticky frequencies.

He wondered what these sounds meant. He knew they bore grave significance, somehow.

One whisper pierced through the noise. One whisper curdled the blood that stupefied his eardrums. One whisper made itself known, and was somehow coherent. It was the bloodthirsty voice of murder's cry.

'_Dean... Indulge me..._

_Dean... Indulge me..._

_Dean...'_

The wistful shadow of the man he once was, begged not to. But this voice was no contest.

The red glow of Lucifer's abyss interrupted the abject obscurity. And soon, Dean's hardened and cold body was warm. An eerie comfort ensued as his body was blanketed by a slow syrupy cascade of blood.

_Dean_...

He heard the distant call echo.

_Dean_...

It came closer. Becoming more and more abrasive.

_DEAN! WAKE UP!_ Came the sobering call.

The smouldering crimson dissolved to ashes and ember. The whispery winds settled. After what seemed like an eternity, Dean regained consciousness.

He was on the floor of the sleep quarters hallway, Sam crouching by his side, furrowing his brows with concern. Dean's eyelids were slowly parting.

"Dean, are you alright? What's going on?"

He tried to sit up, but his body was still heavy and weak. Sam assisted in helping him up, leaning him against the wall.

"Don't know... How long was I out?" Dean asked, his voice rasping.

"Maybe a minute... Dean, this can't just be indigestion," Sam deduced. Dean was so pale, his freckles were in stark contrast, like a thousand punctuation marks on a blank page.

"I'm fine... I just got really dizzy... Puked my lunch."

Sam peered deep into Dean's wincing eyes, hoping to uncover a speckle of truth in his circles of jade, preferring to help ease his sickness before interrogating him. Dean seemed to be feverish, perspiring profusely.

"Come on, let's get you to bed."

Sam took Dean's forearms into his hands to help elevate him, with Dean resisting and hissing in pain. The site of the mark was burning. Sam knew immediately what ailment was plaguing his brother.

He weaves his arms under his and led him to his bunker. He quickly procured a cold wet wash cloth and a glass of water. He put his hand on Dean's forehead, appalled by how hot it was.

"I'm gonna get you some ice and Tylenol," Sam said dryly.

"Could you get me something stronger, my head is killing me." Dean murmured.

"I'll see what we have." Sam answered as he left the room.

Dean put his head in his hands and shed a tear. He wouldn't dare tell Sam what was happening to him, but was still in shock from what he'd experienced while half-lucid. He was afflicted with bloodlust. Though very frightened, he fought to gain what little composure he could in his weakened state. He knew that it was only the beginning and if he were to gank Abaddon and all the rest of those fucking monsters, he'd need to have stones about it.

Sam returned with various pills in hand and with a bucket filled with ice packs, ice compresses and frozen peas. Dean sat up and took the pills, pulling a bottle of Jack Daniels and a shot glass from his bedside table drawer, taking a swig as he swallowed his pharmaceuticals. Then Sam motioned for him to lay down, while covering him with the cold items. Dean was shivering from the fever, but the cold help quell his nausea.

"Thanks, Sammy..." Dean said quietly as he drifted to sleep.

Sam left him to rest.

'_Sammy... He said Sammy...'_ Sam thought as he walked into the main room. It had been a few weeks, at least, since Dean called him that. With Dean, before he'd been at odds with him, Sammy didn't just mean '_Dean's chubby-little-kid-brother'_. Affection weighed heavily on the sobriquet.

He clenched his jaw and took a frustrated breath. He sat at the table, and poured into a stack of literature he was reviewing for information about the infamous Cain. He'd read through the passages intently, but would ultimately find himself thinking about Dean, and it pissed him off. Dean pissed him off. It isn't fair! Because he suspects that now, he'll have to watch his brother die. Because that selfish ass-hat is afraid of being alone and would rather be a martyr. He hoped he'd never have to relive the Devil's deal again. Or purgatory. So part of him was tired of hurting over Dean, or the thousands of ways supernatural phenomena fucked up his life. With one foot always in the door of normal apple pie life, he peered dejectedly into the threshold, always hoping the door would open but knowing that it would shut. And somewhere in all of this chaos, he became jaded. He lost patience. He lost hope. He couldn't handle it anymore.

He decided to go check on Dean. The anger fortified this emotional barricade he built, so that he couldn't hurt as much. The sight of Dean so ill pushed past any effort he'd made not to feel empathy towards him. It wasn't so long ago that he'd made questionable decisions, resorting to sinister means, intending on favourable ends; the cost of which seeming insignificant to the greater cause when blinded by desperation. Demon blood.

Dean's fever had gone down nicely, so Sam decided maybe he should go rest himself. He wondered what it would take for Dean to stop hating himself, when he'd stop defining himself through their co-dependency. Why he couldn't hope for apple-pie himself. For that moment, he surrendered to impending doom, and that release allowed him to fall in a slumber.

_Fuck everything_.


	3. Chapter 3

Though sleeping on a bed ice, he was writhing with heat. He felt Satan's fire fever his body from head to toe. His pulse steadily increased, until it became a hammering inside his chest. His nausea became more of a restlessness. His breath hitched and panted as a small area of his right forearm - the site of the mark, held a great deal of agony. He got up, no longer able to tolerate these strange and hideous stirrings, and knowing Sam was asleep, he decided to satiate his thirst.

He found the lead box holding the supernatural weapon deep within the Men of Letters' archives. It was locked, so he pulled out his 42 caliber and shot the lock until it opened. He thanked the stars the building was made of concrete and stone, he didn't wake Sam, what with 2 floors separating them.

He meticulously opened the box, exposing the weapon's raw and rugged hide, and gently he stroked the sabre's bodice. The feeling sent shivers down his spine. His body was telling him he needed more than to touch the sabre, so unable to part from it, he put it back in the lead box and onto the passenger seat of the Impala. He drove into the night, hoping something would distract him. He found a motel, Michelle's Motel, although the lit letters of its sign spelled hell's Motel instead, with the other letters' lights not shinning. Hell's Motel would prove to be a more than adequate name.

He planned on going to Antonio's Bar across the street getting as drunk as possible, then sleeping at the motel, not wanting to drive under the influence.

He entered the dark and grimy watering hole, where various lost souls congregated and drowned their sorrows in liquor.

He wasted no time getting to the counter, asking the barkeep for the hardest liquor available. He grimaced as the potent beverage eroded his throat.

In the midst of the crowd of a couple dozen truckers, ex-cons, ex-con-truckers and everything in between - whose faces had dread and cigarettes leathering their skin - a gorgeous woman uncharacteristically emerged. Her auburn hair draped her shoulders like a silken weeping willow, and her eyes were like a cloudy winter's night. She took a seat next to Dean, asking for a beer. He paid no special mind to her except to notice her eyes peering back at him through rebel strands, and her cherry red pucker.

"Hey there, handsome." Her voice was writhing with deep salaciousness.

"Hey," Dean rasped, as his baritone voice often did. Her proximity was dangerous. He didn't just see an intimate night between strangers; sex was hardly the loudest call of his primal urges.

"You're seem like a great guy, and yet you're out here, in this shit hole, looking sad and drinking alone. So who broke your heart?"

Dean flushed as he couldn't help but think 'Sam'. He wasn't sure if he could truly love a woman again, and Sam had been chipping away at what little shards of his heart he had left.

"Honey, I'm anything but great..." He said looking into her eyes seriously. She paused and smiled.

"Sorry, I didn't catch your name..." She said, resting a hand on his right arm. The mark pulsed. Trying to contain himself, he gently took the hand off and pulled it into a handshake.

"...Dean."

"I'm Scarlett."

Something about her smile bothered Dean.

They continued to thoroughly inebriate themselves, doing ritualistic pleasantries that came with the mating dance. Shamelessly flirting and touching and kissing at the counter.

They took to Dean's motel room. Dean was getting more aggressive with every passing moment. He tore off his clothes and threw it to the floor, Scarlett biting her lip in excitement. He rushed to her, kissing - tasting her skin - from her bosom to her lips, hastily tearing off her little crimson dress, and inside, she stirred. He pulled her body to his, and sat her pelvis into his cupped hands, pulling her up to him as she wrapped her legs around him. Her nails dug deep into the skin of his bare back, as his fingertips all but perforated the skin of her rear. Their bodies crashed onto the bed. Scarlett, lowering to the level of his hips decided to taste him, feathering him with her rose petal lips while engulfing him with deep moist warmth.

In the thick of passion, Dean muttered 'Christo' and watched as the white of Scarlett's eyes disappear.

"What 'd'you say, Honey," she asked.

"Nothin', it was just very nice is all..." He said. "Why don't you give me a quick second to grab a condom from my car."

"Don't keep me waiting long," she said, sprawling herself on the bed seductively.

Dean pulled on his jeans, his coat over his bare torso and shoes with no socks in record time.

When he returned a minute later, he excused himself to use to restroom quickly and then got back into the flow of things. Scarlett found it odd that he still had his jeans on. He pulled the prophylactic from the pocket as he went on top of her, and pulled it on, letting the jeans fall beside the bed. "Are you ready for this, baby?" The deep guttural promise in his voice piercing her chest.

"Hmm..." She barely managed.

Her eyes grew dark with every thrust, panting rhythmically with the ebb and flow of his tidal wave.

When they were finished she laid next to him, eyeing the tattoo on his chest.

"That's a nice tattoo you have there, Dean..."

"Mhmm... Do you think Emily would've liked it?"

"Who's Emily?" Scarlett only feigned incredulity.

"The brain-dead meat-suit you stole from Mount-Sinai Hospital."

A silence filled the night.

"She was going to be pulled off of life-support anyway. What difference does it make?" She shrugs off in a sigh.

How about all the people's lives you've destroyed... The people you killed... The pain you've caused...

Dean looked at her with a charming smile and stroked her cheek. She smiles back at him, kissing his neck. Dean closes his eyes and hums in pleasure. Feeling a poke on her lower abdomen, Scarlett looked under the sheets at Dean.

"Well, Dean Winchester, the mark certainly hasn't hurt your stamina," she whispers seductively pressing her nose to his. "We heard that at least one of the Winchesters knew how to show a demon a good time, but I probably should've known it was a family trait."

He eases steadily inside of her, a guttural moan ensuing. "Oh, baby, there are definitely good times to be had," he uttered, picking up pace.

She screamed, her eyes darker than ever. Through loud curse words, the people in the next room let it be known it was a disturbance.

It seemed he had a greater swell than before, which was slightly painful but she hissed happily, melting into him.

"I really thought you'd be the first..." She said in gasps. Dean chuckled in response. "I've got something that should help move things along..."

He reached alongside the bed and took the sabre from under his piled jeans. When she sensed her impending doom, she tried to use teleportation powers to move Dean. He was floating a few inches into the air before her powers began to weaken, and Dean's murderous will overpowered her. She fought hard to move him, her nose bleeding from the strain, but he thrust the sabre into her abdomen, delighting at the sound of her cries and the warmth of her blood. He felt her body go lifeless under him. And with the rush came the release he'd been gearing towards. He fell asleep, exhausted from all of the excitement.


End file.
